A WORLD WAR II STORY FOR ADULTS AND CHILDREN AGED 12 & UP. GET YOUR AUTOGRAPHED COPY NOW!

"When the ship exploded, it was a Tuesday night and I was in the officer’s mess having a soft drink. The ship shook violently, all the lights went out, and I knew we were in trouble. I dashed to the door leading out of the mess to the corridor and the steps that went to the top deck, but when I pulled on the door, it wouldn’t open. My immediate fear was being trapped below, but after a good tugging, the door came open and I ran topside to the bridge. Captain Dennis was already there." (From a classified document describing the sinking of the SS PETER SILVESTER, the last Liberty ship sunk by the axis forces during World War II.)

After ten-year-old Hannah loses her father’s boyhood marbles, she’s unable to run away from bad luck. A telegram from the warfront forces her to knuckle down in a game for keeps with her #1 enemy on one of the darkest days in American history.

Scroll downto see a painting by Ray

Ellis, read survivors' reports, find a marble glossary, preview a chapter from the book, & learn more about this important time in history.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Some of the best fiction comes from real life experiences. I grew up in Los Angeles during World War II. My father, a teacher, decided to "join up" and "do his duty." He served aboard the SS PETER SILVESTER in charge of the Naval Armed Guard.

On February 6, 1945 while traveling unescorted in the Indian Ocean, torpedoes struck the hull of the Liberty Ship.

Also on board were 317 mules bound for work on the Burma Road. In writing this book, I discovered a lot about myself, my family, the war years, and the enemy.

While the story is fiction, it is based on fact. All the events surrounding the sinking ot the Liberty ship are true. To the best of my ability, I've tried to be accurate in regards to the events before, during, and after the sinking. I've heard from some of the survivors and family members of survivors. I've read and reread the letters my father wrote home. I've sorted through books and previously classified information, and I've studied photographs and other memorabilia.

This book is centered on growing up at 10827 Woodbine Street in West Los Angeles during "the great war." People living in that house now would be surprised to know we had a vegetable garden in the backyard and chickens, too. Everyone did. It reflects a patriotic time when people did not lock their front doors, shared whatever they had from their backyard gardens, salvaged scraps, mended clothes instead of buying new, and looked out for their neighbors. It was a more innocent and trusting time. While we were suspicious of anyone of Japanese descent and careful not to disclose any secret information about ship departures, we trusted our families and close neighbors. We believed posters in shop windows depicting the enemies in cartoonish exaqgerations, and we listened to the discussions on the radio and watched with riveted attention to the newsreels shown in the local theater before the double feature.

My mother was German in a war against Germany. She idolized President Franklin D. Roosevelt and his wife Eleanor. The highlight of her life was when Mrs. Roosevelt came to dinner. My father was president of Harbor College at the time and the great lady had been invited to speak before the student hody. Somehow it was decided she would come to the house for dinner, and my mother made lemon merinque pie from scratch.

Events of the war years altered their lives and mine. I grew up during a time when all we wanted was to grow up. Teenagers did not have the power they have now and children had even less. We watched the adults in our lives, endured the air raids and searchlights, overheard snippets of news, and we waited and watched, fearful always.

Douglas Aircraft Factory had camouflage netting with fake trees over the buildings. There were gun emplacments in the bluffs along the coast. America was at war and war was on our minds night and day; our playtime consisted of collecting scraps, playing war, hating the enemy, and writing airmail letters on tissue thin paper.

We were a united front, Americans, and we did our patriotic duty. No one doubted our cause and our goal because we were the good guys.

MISSION: To transport valuable pack mules to Calcutta, India for work on the treacherous Burma Road.

WARNING: If the unfortunate 24 December sinking of the SS ROBERT J. WALKER is any indication, German U-boats are still on patrol and a threat to American transport ships.

TOP SECRET

THE PREY

SS Peter Silvester

Lt. j.g. Wendell C. Black

22 Days Adrift

SURVIVORS

GET THE BOOK!

STARS

Humphrey Bogart

Veronica Lake

Ingrid Bergman

Joan Bennett

Frank Sinatra

by Ray Ellis

BASED ON A TRUE STORY!

Although Knuckle Down is fictional, the story is based on true events. The SS Peter Silvester was the last Allied ship to be sunk by the Axis in the Indian Ocean during World War II.

My father, Wendell C. Black, served aboard the doomed Liberty ship in command of the 26 Naval Armed Guard. The painting above by Ray Ellis depicts the rescue. A member of the USS CORPUS CHRISTI, Ellis became a well-known and a much respected artist. Click on the picture to see his gallery.

Adam Cadle’s story came from my father’s report,classified for many years. In addition, I searched books, records, documents, and letters in an attempt to be as accurate as possible in all descriptions of the ship, personnel aboard, the sinking, and rescue.

Little did my father know what was in store for him when he boarded the ship for an unknown destination. It was the sea, not the war, that lured him and, of course, every man in America during this time was expected to do his patriotic duty.

Germany surrendered in May 1945 and U-862, commanded by Heinrich Timm, was taken over by the Japanese and given a new number, I-502.

On 15 February 1946, a year after the sinking of the SS PETER SILVESTER, U-862 was towed into the Malacca Straits and sunk in fifty-two fathoms of water.

THE LIBERTY SHIPS

Each Liberty ship carried a crew of 38 to 62 civilian merchant sailors, and 21 to 40 naval personnel to operate defensive guns and communications equipment. The Merchant Marine served in World War II as a Military Auxiliary. Of the nearly quarter million volunteer merchant mariners who served during World War II, over 9,000 died, a greater percentage than any branch of the armed forces.

The Liberty ship was expendable and expected to last about five years. The ship could not compete with non-emergency vessels in speed, equipment and general serviceability. Even so, Liberties plodded the seas for nearly 20 years after the end of World War II.

28 January 1945 the SS PETER SILVESTER sailed from Melbourne for Colombo, Ceylon (Sri Lanka) enroute to Calcutta, India with her cargo of 317 mules to assist Allied soldiers working on the Burma Road.

Western Area Intelligence received notice of a possible enemy submarine southwest of Fremantle and heading northwest. Anti-submarine patrols were maintained in connection with the movement around the southern area of the British Pacific Fleet. Pilots searched out to 160 miles from the Australian coast but sighted no submarine.

In spite of rumors that a German U-boat was sighted in the area, there had been no submarine attacks in three months, and the SS PETER SILVESTER left the southeastern tip of Australia without escort.

RESCUE SHIP CORPUS CHRISTI

USS CORPUS CHRISTI cleared San Pedro 31 May 1944 for Nouméa, Cairns, and Perth, Western Australia , arriving 18 July. Here she had duty aiding submarines in exercises and training under Commander, Submarines, 7th Fleet. CORPUS CHRISTI was twice commended for unusual accomplishments while under this command, first for locating and rescuing 92 survivors of the torpedoed SS PETER SILVESTER in the Indian Ocean 13 February 1945 after an extended search by all available ships of the United States and Australian Navies, and second, for refueling the British battleship HMS HOWE at sea between 13 and 15 June. (Below - SS PETER SILVESTER 1,000 miles off Australia.)

WORDS OF A SURVIVOR

When the ship exploded, it was a Tuesday night and I was in the officer’s mess having a soft drink. The ship shook violently, all the lights went out, and I knew we were in trouble. I dashed to the door leading out of the mess to the corridor and the steps that went to the top deck, but when I pulled on the door, it wouldn’t open. My immediate fear was being trapped below, but after a good tugging, the door came open and I ran topside to the bridge. Captain Dennis was already there.

The ship was making a loud hissing sound like steam escaping from some valve. It’s a strange thing to be faced with possible death. There’s a quality of unrealness about it like in a dream. During those minutes before we abandoned ship, I faced the fact that I might die. The 121st Psalm kept running through my head, and I kept repeating it over and over. It had been a favorite of mine, one I’d committed to memory.

When we were about to abandon ship, the captain and I stood on the fantail and looked at each other. He started to go down, and then he stood aside and said, “The captain is supposed to be the last to leave the ship.”

I went down the fire hose that we’d thrown over the stern, and he followed me. We had to swim about fifty feet to get into a lifeboat. When we got there, the boat was full of water thrown into it by the explosions.

The torpedoes had hit in the number three hold which is just forward of the mid-structure of the ship. This was where the army men were quartered so they got the worst of it. No doubt some were blown right out of their bunks and into the water. Some probably didn’t know what happened, instantly dying.

We were told that there had been a British convoy of ships that preceded us through the area and that there had been a German sub following around hunting this convoy.

Having missed the convoy and because of supplies and facing the necessity of returning to port, the sub probably saw us in the night and emptied its torpedoes on us. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be sensible for them to fire six torpedoes at one small mule carrier that was already sinking from the first explosions.

Mules tried to climb into the lifeboats and they had to be beaten off.Even saving one would mean disaster for us. It was heartbreaking to watch these poor pack animals eventually give up and slip under the oily waves.

I was pretty scared to speak mildly. I had my loaded pistol on me in the lifeboat. We were all lying down as flat as possible during the time the sub surfaced in order to reduce the target. Figuring I’d be safer without the pistol loaded, I took out the bullets and tossed them over the side.

We had to bail out our boat first and then we tried to tie up together, the boats and rafts, so that we’d be together in a group and could lend aid to one another and we’d also make a bigger image for anyone searching. But the sea was so rough that the bumping together wasn’t practical, so we gave up that idea. It’s surprising how fast rafts and boats can become separated from one another.

After only a brief time, it seemed we were the only ones on the water. We could see no one else.

From a classified report by Lt. (j.g.) Wendell C. Black

32 DAYS!

Knuckle Down

Playing for Keeps

MARBLE GLOSSARY

Aggies: Marbles made from the mineral agate that are harder and make good shooters.

Allies: Marbles made from alabaster, most often a true blue.

Ante: When each player places the same amount of marbles in the ring before play.

Bombsies: The player drops his or her marble onto a target marble. Bombs away!

Bullseye:China and natural agates with a single dot, band, or ring.

Cat’s Eye: A marble of clear glass with a swirl of color inside.

Cardinal: A red-colored onyx marble.

Chip: A spot where a piece has broken off a marble.

Clearie: A transparent marble of one color.

Commies: Common clay marbles painted any color.

Dead Duck:When a target is in an easy position to shoot.

Ducks: Target marbles.

Ding:A dent from on a marble from impact.

Dubs: Shooting two or more marbles out of the ring.

English: When a player puts a spin on a shooter to male a more complicated shot and increases the chance of winning.

Flake: Damage to a marble that is smaller than a chip but reduces the value

For Fair: Friendly. Playing for fair means you get your marbles back.

Fracture: Refers to internal damage to a marble. Not a chip or flake. Reduces value.

Fudging: Cheating. Lifting your hand off the ground before you shoot.

Glimmer:A transparent marble containing mica that cause it to glimmer and sparkle.

Handspan: The measurement between the end of the little finger to your thumb.

Heisting: When a player shoots from atop the other hand while keeping one knuckle of the shooting hand to the ground in order to gain a height advantage.

Histing:Lifting knuckle from ground when shooting.

Hunching: Moving over the line while you shoot.

Keepsies: Playing “For Keeps.” Being able to keep all the opponent’s marbles captured.

Kimmie:The target in a marble game.

Knuckle Down: Basic shooting position. One knuckle of the shooting hand must be kept firmly to the ground.

Lag:A way to decide who plays first. Each player rolls or lags his or her marble toward the target.

Lag-line: A ten-foot line touching the marble ring used in lagging.

Lofting:When an advanced player shoots a marble into the air in a graceful arch.

Mib: A target in a game. Long ago, it meant a clay marble.

Mibster:Someone who plays marbles.

Milkies: Translucent white marbles.

Moonie: A translucent, semi-transparent white or light blue marble.

Plunking:Making your marble jump and bounce before it reaches the target.

Ringer: An alternative to playing “: for keeps” thought immoral at one time since it resembled gambling. A game of “friendlies” using 13 marbles.

Snooger:A target hit out of position but still in the ring. A near miss.

BOOK EXCERPT!

When Addie turned blue, Momma scooped her from the floor, fled to the kitchen, and turned her upside down over the sink.

Everything about Addie seemed to be my fault. I got to my feet, but Momma said, “Out of my way, Hannah.” Then she shook my four-year-old sister like a rug. Addie’s tongue hung down, her eyes bulged, and her short hair stuck out as if electrocuted.

Momma slapped her hard on the back. Addie coughed, and the marble that belonged to me struck the sink and rolled round and round the drain.

Momma’s eyebrows pinched together and her mouth drew into a line. “You’re ten years old, Hannah. You know better than to leave your marbles around where Addie can get them. What would your father say?”

Grandma added her two cents. “Shame on you, Hannah. Don’t you know your pitiful sister could have choked to death?”

Teddy turned around and grinned. Grandma clucked her tongue. Then she pulled a hanky from her sweater pocket, lifted her bifocals to blot her eyes, and shook her head. “My goodness, Hannah, when will you ever learn to stay out of trouble?” Before I could answer, she went back to her rocker to roll string for the war effort.

It took me awhile to find all my marbles and as soon as I handed them to Momma, she threw them in the trash. Those marbles had come from Daddy before he went to war. They had been his marbles from when he was ten. He gave them to me he said because I was the oldest and he could trust me not leave them around where Addie might find them. “I know you’ll be Momma’s big helper when I’m gone.”

While Momma held Addie, Teddy and I went outside to study the scorched chicken head in the ashes of Grandma’s burn pile. We stood beyond the victory garden near the hole we were digging to China and I tried to explain to an eight-year-old brother how I’d lost most of Daddy’s marbles to mean kids at school.

“Those boys call me Hannah-banana and Four-eyes. They chase me on the playground yelling ‘Hannah Cadle needs a baby cradle,’ and I wish I had a different name like Shirley Temple or …”

“Whoever heard of a girl playing marbles?” Teddy said.

The dead chicken looked worse than the day before. The chopped off head had shrunk and claws in the feet curled back. The rest of the chicken had wound up floured and fried in Grandma’s big iron skillet.

Then Addie started to bellow. She couldn’t talk, but her cries could be heard all the way by the burn pile.

Grandma came out the back door in a hurry and went over to her trailer parked alongside our house. She slammed the door, making the narrow wooden sign with her name Iona Cadle bounce up and down. When the door didn’t shut tight, she opened it, adjusted the sign Grandpa had carved while he was still alive, and then slammed it again.

Teddy kicked the chicken head into the powdery ash. “Let’s play war,” he said.

“I’m sick of war,” I said.

Daddy had sailed off on a Liberty ship, but we weren’t supposed to talk about it. The enemy might hear. Careless talk could cost lives.

In the middle of the night Momma came into my room, flicked on the light, and woke me like an air raid. “I had a dream Addie was missing,” she said. “And now she’s gone! Where can she be?”

Momma sensed things. She knew before she opened a letter or the phone rang that something was about to tear our lives apart. She was always saying, “I had a feeling that would happen,” or “I sensed something bad was coming down the pike.”

She never said she knew Grandpa was going to die, but she made him a cake with yellow frosting the day before. Her intuition carried so much weight people started asking her, “Sarah, did you have a feeling about this beforehand?”

Momma checked under Addie’s bed and then looked in the closet too crowded even for someone as small as Addie to play hide and seek. “Didn’t you hear your sister get out of bed?”

I imagined Addie getting out of bed and moving about the room. “I was asleep.”

“Oh, Hannah, how can you sleep with Addie in such danger?”

I rubbed my eyes as I got out of bed. “Sorry, Momma.”

She sighed and went into Teddy’s room to wake him. He was the man of the house with Daddy gone.

Then she ordered me to check the backyard. “Go, Hannah.”

“But Momma, it’s dark out there.”

There was the garbage can where Momma had buried my dead cat Ration, the trellis where Daddy had killed a snake with the garden hoe, and Grandpa’s ghost still roamed near the willow tree.

Momma sent me through the service porch crammed with scraps for the war effort. I opened the back door and stepped out into creepiest spot on all of Woodbine Street. Barefoot and wearing only my flannel pajamas with missing buttons and legs too short, I kept thinking I was too young to die.

The concrete slab Daddy had poured was ice cold and I started shaking all over. Our yard, crowded with Grandma’s sweet peas and berry vines, Momma’s victory garden, the burn pile, clothesline, Grandpa’s ghost, and all kinds of dead things, quivered in shadowy horror. I thought I heard German curse words, and I felt Japanese eyes staring just like in posters on the streetcar.

“Momma?” Even the sound of my own voice gave me the creeps. “Oh, Momma, don’t make me do this. Please.”

No one heard. I told myself it was stupid to be such a baby with a war going on. Hannah-banana Cadle needs a baby cradle!

I took a deep breath and forced myself to stay put. Standing there was like being in a dream but I knew it was real because my heart was pounding so loud it made my whole body sway back and forth.

Then I had a scary feeling, maybe a premonition like Momma got all the time, and I stood as still as a post. Something white and shimmery moved by the back fence. Either it was Addie or the ghost of Addie.

My screams hurdled over the wheelbarrow and spidery wood stacks and boysenberry vines. “Momma! Momma, Momma! Come quick! Addie’s way out here in the back yard, and I think she’s a ghost!”

Grandma’s trailer door flew open at the same time her light came on. “Landsakes, Hannah Marie Cadle, what in heaven’s name are you doing in the backyard yelliing your head off at this hour of the night?”

Coiling her long silver hair into a topknot as she plunged down the squeaky metal trailer steps, she got to me in about three seconds.

Lights went on in the house next door where two lady musicians lived. Always curious, they came outside to peer over the side fence. One of them called to Momma. “Sarah? What’s going on? We heard screaming. Is everything all right?”

From the sound of the husky voice, I knew it was Fraser, the short woman who walked like a man and played the trombone.

Momma didn’t look their direction. Head down, she grabbed Addie by the wrist and dragged her back to the house. Even so, Fraser got a good look at Addie. Snot gleamed on Addie’s upper lip, her tongue hung out her mouth, and her eyes were wild.

“Poor thing,” said Robin, the tall one who played the cello, but I wasn’t sure if she meant poor Addie or poor Momma.

Fraser and Robin performed classical music most evenings, and Daddy always said it sounded a lot like the Gas Company’s Evening Concert on the radio. Before he went to war, he said he liked having them as neighbors because they were quiet except for their music and they minded their own business.

Tying the sash of her velveteen robe so her nightgown wouldn’t show, Grandma went over to the fence. “The child was just sleepwalking,” she said.

Grandma didn’t like their sort, but she stood by the side fence anyway talking to Fraser and Robin about what a terrible trial Addie was for Momma ever since Daddy had gone off to war.

Grandma came inside wringing her hands. “Landsakes, Sarah, that child could have caught her death. That’s what I just told that nosy Fraser next door.”

Momma looked at Grandma and sighed like a deflating balloon.

The next morning Momma drove us to town for groceries even though we were all grumpy from being up most of the night. Holding onto Addie so she couldn’t get away, she compared ration books with Grandma, and they traded a few stamps so they’d have enough for sugar and meat.

Going to the market was like crossing enemy lines. Kids pointed at Addie and called her “moron” or “retard.” One of the Hannah-banana boys said, “That kid oughta be in the freak show.”

A fat boy stuck out his tongue, spread out his arms, and waddled side-to-side trying to look like Addie.

I dropped a can of Spam into Momma’s basket next to Grandma’s buttermilk, and then went over and slugged the boy in the face. Howling, he doubled his fists and was ready to punch me back.

“Hit him, Hannah,” Teddy said.

Still holding onto Addie, Momma grabbed me in time, and then shoved me out the door and across the street to the Five & Dime.

“Teddy, you’d better go with her.” Momma pushed him after me. “And don’t you kids get into any trouble.”

“I’m not her baby sitter,” Teddy said, but he came anyway because there was no place better than the Five & Dime.

The store was empty except for the clerk with the Veronica Lake hair. While Teddy strolled the aisles to look at water pistols and baseball cards, I found the marbles. They gleamed like jewels and tiny planets, and there were hundreds, maybe thousands that filled a bin. “Aggies” and “alleys,” “shooters” and “steelies,” the endless supply stood next to a row of fancy drawstring bags.

I touched a black bag with shiny gold letters: “My Marbles.” It fit perfectly in my hand. Soft and new, it soon found its way into my pocket. But what good was a marble bag without marbles?

While Teddy aimed toy weapons at the opposite side of the store at posters advertising Coca-Cola and Nesbitt Orange, the clerk with the blonde movie star pageboy hair and cherry colored cover girl lipstick read Yank magazine, I helped myself to some new marbles.

Before he went to war, Daddy had taken out his pocketknife and cut a pink rose from a bush in Fraser’s front yard. “Shhh, don’t tell your mother I stole it,” he’d said. “You know there’s nothing she likes better than flowers.”

And, at that moment, there was nothing I liked better than marbles.

All the way home, I felt the bulge in my pocket and couldn’t help but smiled. The Hannah-banana boys would be sorry when I won Daddy’s marbles back.

Momma’s intuition caught me before she and Grandma got the groceries put away. “Where did you get those marbles?” she asked.

“Found ‘em.”

“Hannah?” She snatched the bag, and marbles rolled across the floor. “I had a hunch you were up to no good. You were too quiet all the way home.”

“But Momma, the store has so many.”

“That’s stealing, Hannah, and stealing is wrong. What would your father say?”

I sat on the floor watching my beautiful new marbles circle in all directions. Without ammunition, I would never be able to win Daddy’s marbles back.

Grandma’s mouth drew into a line as she folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll watch the younger children,” she volunteered. “You go ahead, Sarah.”

For two people who disagreed on just about everything, Grandma and Momma were united when it came to me.

“Pick them up and come along,” Momma said.

She drove me back to town and marched me into the Five & Dime. “I’d like to speak to the manager, please,” she said to the clerk.

The blonde girl glanced at me, popped her gum, and closed her magazine. Then she slid off her stool and sauntered real slow to a back office. A man too old to fight in the war came out with a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes in his shirt pocket. “Yes, ma’am? Is there something I can do for you?”

“My daughter has some business with you.” Momma handed the bag of marbles to me. “Hannah, what do you have to say to this gentleman?”

I looked at my shoes. I couldn’t think of anything to say except that I really wanted those marbles.

“Hannah?” Momma’s voice got sharper.

My heart tore apart as I held out the drawstring bag. “I stole some of your marbles.”

“And? What else, Hannah?”

Stealing marbles wasn’t the worst thing I’d ever done. When Grandma let me wear Daddy’s baby ring, I lost it at the beach. Telling her would kill her for sure, so I hoped she’d die before I had to confess.

“You owe this man an apology.” Momma gave me a poke and a prompt. “And?”

“And I’m sorry I’m going to hell,” I said.

Momma yanked me out the Five & Dime and drove home fast.

Grandma sprang from her rocker the minute we walked in. “It’s time Hannah went to church,” she announced. Then she said if anyone needed a good dose of soul-searching, Bible-thumping religion, it was me.

On Sunday, Grandma put on her Red Cross shoes and her black hat with the dead bird on top and shoved me onto the streetcar that went downtown to the biggest Baptist church in Los Angeles. Teddy got to stay home and read the Sunday comics and Momma hadn’t been to church since Addie was born.

All the way downtown, I pretended not to know the old lady with the blackbird on her head. We rattled and clanged along Venice Boulevard as I thought of a million things I’d rather do on Sunday morning.

Grandma started talking to the lady across the aisle and found out in about ten seconds that she was a Gold Star mother. “Oh, such a loss. You have my deepest sympathy, my dear,” Grandma said, and then, even though posters inside and outside the streetcar warned, Loose Lips Sink Ships, she started telling a complete stranger classified secrets. “My son’s a naval officer, but he didn’t have to join up. He has three children and the youngest, poor little Addie, isn’t quite right.” Everyone could hear Grandma’s big announcements. “He’s on a Liberty ship right now, and only God knows where he’s headed. They censor letters, you know.”

I dug my elbow into her side, but her corset was like a suit of armor under her Sunday dress. A poster with Uncle Sam frowning warned that the enemy could be listening but once Grandma got to talking no one could stop her.

“My late husband was the Reverend Conrad Cadle.”

I put my hands over my ears and shoved my face against the window. It was my fault Grandpa was dead. I inherited the premonition thing from Momma because after I had a bad dream about Grandpa dying, he really did die.

I kept my face to the window, making steam clouds while I counted three Kilroy Was Here signs. After we got off the trolley I loitered behind, hoping to get lost.

“Come along, Hannah.” Grandma motioned from the church steps. “Quit dragging your feet. We don’t want to be late.” She waited, hands on hips, handbag dangling by its strap from an elbow, her mouth going round and round as if chewing a stick of gum. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve got your good Sunday shoes all scuffed.” She took her hanky with the embroidered “I” for Iona in the corner, spit on it and then rubbed the toes of my best and only Mary Jane shoes.

I jumped out of the way. “Stop, Grandma. I don’t want spit on my shoes.”

The ruined handkerchief went back in her purse with a snap. “Mind your manners,” she said. Then she caught the sleeve of my Sunday sweater.

She leaned over to shake her finger in my face. “All right, young lady, it looks like we won’t be going to Clifton’s Cafeteria after the service.”

Her words struck like bullets. Clifton’s Cafeteria had a real waterfall, an organist playing music, long steam tables, and food scooped up like ice cream set out in little white dishes behind glass.

All through the preacher preaching and the choir singing, I regretted not going to Clifton’s where I could choose three things and it was always mashed potatoes, potato salad, and chocolate cake. I bit my thumbnail as I swung my feet in spit-upon shoes and acted sinful and unholy.

Soon the droning sound of the preacher’s sermon put me in a prayerful mood, and I started praying really hard for Clifton’s.

Someone got up on the altar stage and said, “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition” and then told everyone the paper drive went well and to save grease and scraps for the war effort.

A fox stared from one end of a fur that hung around the neck of the fat lady sitting in the pew in front of me. It had paws with claws and a tail caught in its mouth.To escape the fox eyes, I studied church windows as the congregation sang hymns about blood on the cross. Jesus had his arms stretched out as if he needed a hug while he stood all alone in the stained glass. He’d risen from the dead, and the only people I knew who had done that were vampires. The thought of Grandpa coming back as a vampire put the fear of God into me so bad that I said “Jesus Christ” out loud.

I scrunched down in my seat, and the dead fox was only an inch from my face and smelled like mothballs. I stuck my tongue out, but the fox didn’t flinch. Light in the sanctuary wavered. The choir sang, the preacher raised his voice, and then he held his arms out exactly like Jesus and invited people to come forward to be forgiven.

“Come sit on the right hand of God,” he begged.

He begged so much I felt sorry for him. I figured God looked like President Roosevelt in the Movietone News, and it didn’t seem such a bad thing to be forgiven before Grandpa rose from the grave. The preacher waited so long after begging it got embarrassing. My body floated out of that church pew without any say from me, and I tripped over everyone’s feet to get to the center aisle.

“Hannah!” Grandma tried to catch me, but I was long gone.

Other people in the congregation stood up when they saw me, and we soon became a little parade. Being way out front, I felt like Miss America going down that long red carpet.

The preacher put both hands on my head the way Momma pressed an orange on the squeezer, and I started to shake all over. He called those of us who had come forward “lambs,” and he shouted up a prayer about suffer the little children and let a child lead them, and his hands smashed my hair so hard I wet my pants.

Hot pee ran down my legs into my socks without holes and Sunday shoes and I hadn’t peed my pants since first grade. Hundreds of people were saying “Amen.” Multitudes sang Holy, Holy, Holy. I thought I ought to apologize for the puddle at the altar, but the preacher had his eyes closed and was busy asking God for forgiveness and salvation.

With the praying done and the congregation turning to go, the preacher pulled out a pen and a little notebook to write down the names of the “lambs.” He threatened to contact everyone to schedule baptisms, and I remembered that was where a preacher shoved people under water to see if they’d drown. “My name’s Iona Cadle,” I lied and then ducked under his elbow, fled into the congregation, and pressed my way through the crowd to Grandma.

The dead bird bounced on her hat as she hurried, and she wouldn’t look at me. I tied the arms of my sweater around my waist so the pee place wouldn’t show in case she changed her mind about Clifton’s. She stepped onto the streetcar, clutched her purse atop her knees, and stared at the Uncle Sam Wants You poster all the way home.

When I walked into the house, Momma was trying to feed Addie applesauce. She slid a spoonful into my sister’s mouth and when Addie spit it out, she loaded the spoon for another try.

“But Momma, I’m a lamb now. I’m the little child who led them.” I got the jitters just thinking about giving the preacher Grandma’s name, but I figured being first down the aisle ought to get me off the hook for causing Addie to almost choke to death and for dreaming about Grandpa dying and for all the other sinful things I’d done.

“Hannah, what in heaven’s name are you talking about?” she asked.

“I’m sorry I acted irrelevant,” I said.

“You mean irreverent?” she asked. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

I took a deep breath and danced on one foot and then the other. “But I’m forgiven, Momma,” I exclaimed. “And now I’m not going to hell.”

She must have seen the holy change in me because she set Addie’s spoon down, closed her eyes like she was praying, and sighed really long and deep.